


what lies beneath

by ktula



Series: 101 Kinks (2017/2018) [7]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy, Star Wars: Episode VII: The Force Awakens
Genre: Class Differences, Erroneous Assumptions, Hux is only nice to droids, Inappropriate Use of the Force, Lingerie, M/M, No Feminization, entitlement, new and exciting kinks being discovered on the spot, pre-TFA dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-18
Updated: 2018-09-18
Packaged: 2019-07-13 18:58:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16023977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ktula/pseuds/ktula
Summary: Kylo Ren has the audacity to get his parcels shipped to Hux's quarters while Ren is on an away mission.Hux wants nothing to do with any of this.The parcels keep arriving regardless....guess there's only one real option, here.(lingerie/panty kink fill)





	what lies beneath

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FayeHunter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FayeHunter/gifts).



> So this is a fill from the [101 Kinks](https://heyktula.tumblr.com/post/166273500159/101-kinks-send-me-a-number-and-a-ship-and-ill) list.
> 
> Specifically, this is 53. lingerie/panty kink, now with bonus class tension.

The droid is waiting outside Hux’s quarters when he returns after his first shift. “Delivery for Commander Ren.”

“Commander Ren is away,” Hux says politely. “I expect him back next week.”

The droid whirrs for a moment before speaking again. “This parcel requires a signature.”

“I don’t have—”

The droid whirrs again, and Hux sighs, takes off his glove and holds out his hand for the droid to scan it.

“Confirmed,” the droid beeps a moment later. “General Hux has signing authority for Commander Ren.”

Hux’s eyebrows shoot up his forehead before he schools his face. Bloody typical of Ren—hand over something that Hux told him repeatedly he would need in Ren’s absence, and then not even bother to tell him about it. “Certainly.” He presses his fingertip to the bioscanner, but the droid doesn’t confirm receipt. “Do you need a retinal scan as well?”

“Manual input is requested,” the droid says.

Hux frowns at it a moment before the droid helpfully pops a stylus out from a hidden compartment.

Hux curls his lip, signs the screen in his cramped, unsteady writing. It’s an inferior way to authorize something—and consequently, he shouldn’t be surprised that Ren requires it. It’s the type of thing he would bring up with Snoke, if he thought Snoke cared—but Snoke doesn’t get involved with anything that doesn’t involve Skywalker, and Hux doesn’t want to look petty, so he just files it into his mental list of Ren’s bullshit, and moves on.

The droid burbles happily, and extends a small box to Hux. It’s black, sealed, and remarkably light.

Hux stands in the corridor holding it in his hand a moment before turning into his quarters, and setting the box down on the closest available surface to the door.

He’ll give it to Ren when Ren gets back.

 

There’s another parcel waiting for him the next day. This one is longer but slightly narrower than the last, and also requires a physical signature. Hux signs for it again, takes it silently into his quarters, and sets it down on the shelf next to the door, stacking the smaller one from yesterday on top.

He’s doing paperwork that night at his desk when he feels a slight pressure at his forehead. He waits a moment—if it’s a headache, it’ll descend into his eyes next—and when his vision remains unaffected, he scowls and goes back to his paperwork.

“Sod off, Ren,” he says.

The pressure at his forehead retreats, and is gone.

Good.

 

(He feels it again that night, just as he falls asleep, and he grits his teeth against Ren’s attempted intrusion. He’s stronger than this, he’s better than this, he will prevail, his mind is a bulwark, miles and miles of titanium, absolutely impenetrable—and, after a few moments, the feeling recedes.

(He dreams of black fabric, and sinking into the dark void of space, of breathing easily even though there isn’t any air. It’s not the strangest dream he’s ever had—that one involved tentacles, and he opted for a round of reconditioning afterwards, just to be safe—but it’s definitely odd, and he notes it briefly in his log when he awakens in case it becomes a reoccurring thing.)

 

“Would you stop,” Hux says through gritted teeth.

“Sir?” Mitaka asks.

“Not you,” Hux says. “As you were, Lieutenant.” _Don’t think I don’t feel you poking around_ , Hux thinks, as loudly as he can. _Get the fuck out, and go do whatever you’re supposed to be doing._

The pressure recedes again, and Hux re-focuses on the report Mitaka is giving him.

 

(He’s thinking of gowns, for some reason, when he wakes, not dissimilar to the ones Maratelle used to wear to the stodgy functions the ex-Imperials kept haphazardly putting together, and that Brendol kept forcing them to attend. Hux puts it out of his mind, goes about his regular morning routine. After his shift, he sends a quick note to Maratelle enquiring after her health.)

 

Three more parcels arrive over the next week. Two large, one small. None of them are from companies Hux recognizes. He hates that he’s curious. He hates that he’s wondering. He hates this fucking _headache_ , which is searing into his skull and distracting him from his work and blurring his vision and making him fucking _furious_.

“I hate,” Hux says to his paperwork, “that you won’t take a bloody hint, Ren. I’ll take this to the Supreme Leader, don’t think I won’t. My mind is extraordinarily important to him, even if it’s not to you, and he’ll tolerate a lot of banthashit from you, but he won’t tolerate you driving me mad.”

_…mad already_ … comes the faint echo.

Hux ignores it.

 

(The headache returns that night, relentless, and Hux falls asleep grinding his teeth. He dreams of a physical sensation repeated on loop—the drag of something smooth up his thigh, a heavy weight at his crotch. When he wakes, his thigh is red from rubbing at it. The sensation between his legs doesn’t fade until he’s nearly finished his morning ablutions.)

 

“Naboo, sir,” Mitaka says. “That’s the common denominator.”

“Pardon?” Hux asks.

Mitaka shifts a little uncomfortably, his eyes sliding off to the side. “The list of companies you gave me in confidence. The common denominator between them is Naboo.”

Hux suppresses the instinct to roll his eyes, but not by much. “Thank you, Mitaka.”

“Is this at all related to—”

“Don’t finish that sentence,” Hux says. “Do you have the performance indicators from Phasma from yesterday’s drills?”

“Yes,” Mitaka says, straightening back into parade rest and making eye contact again. “Stats for the troopers are as follows…”

 

(That same sensation as he sleeps, this time on both thighs. He is sitting, his knees open, and he feels pressure sliding up his right thigh, and then his left, that oppressive weight between his legs—and then the sequence loops. Something sliding up his right thigh. Something sliding up his left. Pressure. Loop. Right. Left. Pressure. Loop. Right. Left—

(He wakes hard, and takes care of it, efficiently and with minimal mess, in the shower. Afterwards, he drinks two cups of tarine tea while he waits for the flush to calm from his face, and modifies his chrono to wake him fifteen minutes earlier in case the issue continues to occur.)

 

Hux moves the parcels to the small table. They’re taking up too much room on his shelves, and he prefers to have somewhere to set his gloves when he comes into his chambers, rather than coming inside and immediately being reminded of his co-commander.

He signs for another parcel that night, a long, slender, remarkably light box. He doesn’t need to order Mitaka to look up the sender.

He knows the company will be based on Naboo.

 

(His right thigh. His left thigh. Heat, weight, pressure, _need_ between his legs. There is someone chuckling in the background, and the voice is almost familiar, but not quite, the pitch of it slightly off, even though he feels as though he should recognize it—

(He wakes, and finds he has rolled onto his stomach in his sleep, has been rutting against the sheets like a cadet. It’s shameful.

(He increases the frequency of his masturbation schedule by fifteen percent, and books an appointment with a medical droid to get bloodwork done, on the off chance that this is a hormonal imbalance.)

 

“Are you sleeping well?” Snoke asks.

Hux moves his hands behind his back, grips his wrist tightly in his other hand, and says nothing.

“You look…tired,” Snoke adds.

“We are all working hard,” Hux says. “There is a lot of work to be done on a project this size—”

“Ah, yes,” Snoke intones, the hologram flickering slightly. “My apprentice is working hard as well, and making great strides. Just the other week—”

Hux sets his jaw and pretends to listen. It’s intolerable, the way Snoke goes on about Ren, especially since he knows damn well that the goals for Ren’s current mission are exactly _zero_ , that for all he can tell, Ren is off-planet on a fucking _holiday_ , faffing about on some grungy planet instead of participating, in any way, in the running of the _Finalizer_ , which he co-commands just enough to remove all the glory from Hux’s shoulders, but not enough to actually, you know, assist him in any way.

Hux refuses to send a snitty message to Ren afterwards, but it’s not because he doesn’t want to. It’s because he knows Ren won’t check his comm.

_Hope you’re enjoying your vacation_ , he thinks snidely when the headache sets in later that night. _Don’t worry about me, I have everything well in hand._

(He’s up late that night, attempting to sort through a data mine they’d recently managed to intercept from the Resistance, when he feels that same sensation on his thighs. Now that he’s awake, he recognizes it immediately—fingertips, dragging up the fabric of his uniform pants. First his right thigh. Then his left thigh. He’s hard, pressing against his underwear. He reaches down to adjust himself—and his hand closes on nothing.

(Hux looks down. His uniform pants are sitting exactly as they should. Feeling like an idiot, he presses his index finger against the fly of his pants—and he is flaccid and soft. The sensation of being erect remains, the heavy weight between his legs, the heat of it all, and—

(”What the _fuck_ ,” he says aloud, and everything retreats so quickly it’s as though the sensations have been sucked into a black hole.

(He tilts his head, and clears his throat, and goes back to his datapad.)

 

“Pardon me,” Hux says evenly. “You’ll need to repeat that.”

Mitaka twitches, swallows. “Another month,” he says. “We received word this morning that Commander Ren will be gone for another standard month, and that the Finalizer is to rendezvous with him in the Outer Rim. Coordinates to be provided,” he adds hurriedly.

“I’m sure they will be,” Hux says tightly, furious even though he knows it’s not Mitaka’s fault. Mitaka is just the messenger. There’s no point in screaming at him when he _should_ be screaming at Ren, the irresponsible fucktrumpet. “I’ll follow this up with Supreme Leader Snoke.”

“Yes, sir,” Mitaka says, shoulders rounding inward.

Were Hux a softer man, he may have considered a steady hand on the other man’s shoulder as he walked past him, over to the viewport. As it is, Hux considers the gesture anyway—and that’s when he feels that insistent pressure on the front of his head.

“ _Not_ now,” he snaps aloud, and Mitaka quails and turns away, heading back to his workstation.

 

(It’s silk, Hux realizes. Black silk, softer than anything he’s ever touched before, sliding across skin. Black silk and something else, something stretching across his crotch, holding everything snug to his body, and there’s—there’s so much of it, everything is tight and hot and snug, and he hears that damned chuckle, and he doesn’t know what any of it _means_ , and he wants to go home more than anything, he wants to go home and he wants to go back to his rooms and his training, his regular routine, wants to look that sanctimonious prick right in the eyes and tell him—and tell him—

(Hux wakes up with a brutal headache, eyes stinging like he’s been swimming in salt water. He washes his face, brushes his teeth, shaves, and gets dressed. He glances at the stack of parcels as he leaves his quarters, but it doesn’t matter. Ren won’t be back for another month, and Hux is fucking stuck with his detritus.)

 

The new rendezvous point for the Finalizer—and the speed at which Snoke expects them to get there—absolutely derails everything else Hux had been doing on ship, and he’s in a foul mood the following day.

He’s so ill-tempered that he actually comms Ren that evening, while he’s trying to work at his desk, because he can’t even focus on his actual work, knowing that they’re going to have to pick everything up at the end of the week and start heading toward the Outer Rim. (Hux _detests_ the Outer Rim, he’s moved past that point of his life, and the next thing he knows, Snoke will be sending them out to sodding _Jakku_ , and he doesn’t particularly want to go there _either_ but he’ll _have_ to, and—)

_General A. Hux [Finalizer]: I’ve been made aware that not only is your little excursion delayed a month, but that we’re to pick you up rather than you returning here._

_General A. Hux [Finalizer]: I suppose I’ll just cancel the construction of this customized TIE, then, if you’re so dead-set on being picked up like a small child coming home from creche._

He doesn’t get a response. He doesn’t expect one.

Fuck, he’s pissed.

He’s so irritated that he goes back to his chambers in the middle of his shift, gathers up every single parcel Ren has had delivered, and carries them all back to Ren’s rooms. He’s just going to dump them inside, in the trash compactor that Ren calls a room. He stabs his override code into the door, balancing the packages on his other hip, and opens the door to find—

—Ren’s rooms are pristine. Absolutely pristine, and just as minimalist as Hux’s own. It’s an admirable level of cleanliness, and one that Hux didn’t think Ren possessed.

Feeling more confused than anything, Hux lets the door to Ren’s rooms slide closed again, and walks, in a daze, back to his own chambers.

He’s more than halfway there when he realizes he’s still carrying Ren’s parcels.

He sets them back on his own table.

“It’s not like it matters,” he says to his empty room.

He doesn’t get a response.

 

(It’s a robe, in the dream. The silk is a robe, expensive and luxurious, draped around his shoulders and tied loosely around his waist, flowing over his thighs and pooling down on the floor. He’s hard, achingly so, and he _wants_ , so badly, and he just needs—

(He spreads his legs, and hears an approving murmur behind him. Palms his crotch, which feels odd—bulky and disproportionate, hot, and—

(He looks down, and his thighs are thick, dotted with moles, his massive erection encased in lace and—)

 

Hux wakes suddenly, gasping for breath and coming at the same time, soaking his sheets and arching his back and he is fucking _furious_ because this is inefficient and excessive and entirely too much, and now, on top of everything, he has to have his sheets laundered.

He sends Mitaka from the bridge in tears midway through the shift, and the loss of control makes him even more furious. When Mitaka comes back, eyes still red, and Hux immediately wants to scream at him again, he realizes that he’s not fit to be on the bridge. He hands control over to Peavey, stalks back to his quarters composing a message to Ren in his head. He’s gotten as far as _how dare you invade my mind_ when he sees that it’s not just that Ren has invaded his mind—it’s that Ren has invaded his _quarters_.

The droid in his quarters isn’t unusual—Hux gives them free range to do what they like during his shifts, to restock his kitchen or clean his floors or deliver messages—but the hulking shape lurking by his table, whispering to the droid, is not something he should be seeing. One of the parcels is open, and the shadowed figure is bent over it, hands going right through the tissue paper without any effect whatsoever, as though the shadow is trying to expose—

“What the fuck,” Hux snaps, “are you doing?”

Ren looks up, bare face momentarily visible before his entire body shudders, crackles, and then winks out as though he’d never been there at all.

Hux steps inside his quarters, lets the door slide shut behind him. The droid whirrs at him inquisitively.

“It’s alright,” he says. “I’m not upset. You can go.”

The droid whirrs again, blinks its lights at him, and lets itself out.

Hux sighs. Whatever Force banthashit Ren is doing, the least he could do is not do it in Hux’s quarters. Hux is going to—going to clean up, and send Ren a very stern comm, copying Supreme Leader Snoke. He reaches out for the tissue paper to press it back into the box, and the overhead lights glint off something inside the box. Hux tilts his head, moves the tissue paper aside with one gloved hand.

Silk.

Black silk.

_Oh._

Against his better judgement, he removes his gloves, sets them on the table. He reaches into the parcel, and draws out the mass of black silk, spreads it out to decipher its shape and purpose. It’s massive, nearly as long as Hux is tall, and wide, and—

It’s a robe.

It’s a robe broad enough to cover those thick shoulders of Ren’s.

He should laugh.

He should laugh, because Ren is an animal, and a graceless one at that.

He should laugh.

Hux swallows, hard. Sets the robe down.

Reaches for the next package, and slits the tape open with the edge of his nail.

 

***

 

Kylo is furious when he finally strides onto the Finalizer. Two standard months he’s been stuck out there in the rain, with only the remnants of a ship that had nearly _blown up in atmo_ on him, and all he’d wanted was for Hux to send a transport, but the general had been an absolute pencilpusher about the entire thing, had dawdled and delayed, finally picking up Kylo by himself like he was doing Kylo a _favour_ or something when all Kylo needed was a transport sent out to get him.

Two

full

months

and Kylo wants to scream.

_Commander Kylo Ren, Master of the Knights of Ren [Finalizer]: I’ll pick up my things at 23:00. Do not attempt to delay me._

He’d planned to go directly to Hux’s quarters, yell at him for a while, retrieve his parcels, and then head back to his own quarters so he could pour a bath and relax—but he’s been delayed so long planetside that he can smell himself every time he inhales even though he’s still wearing the mask, so he detours to his own quarters first. Stands in a hot shower and waits for his conditioner to set while he contemplates exactly what he’s going to say to Snoke tomorrow. He’ll make a list. An itemized list of ways that the little red-headed weasel has been screwing him over.

He carefully dries his hair, braids it back, and puts on fresh robes, his boots, and his helmet before striding over to Hux’s quarters. He slams his gloved hand down on the access panel, fully expecting to be denied and already gathering the Force about him—but the door slides open immediately.

Confused, Kylo steps inside, lets the door slide shut behind him. The lights are dimmed. There’s a nearly-full bottle of expensive whiskey set on the low table by the ice-blue couch, an empty tumbler next to it, and then a series of boxes stacked next to it.

Kylo stares. He’d known that they arrived, but they’re all here, stacked neatly, and—and they’ve almost all been opened, the tape shoddily torn at the sides, one of the box lids not even fully back on, and the largest box blatantly open in the middle of the table, tissue paper scrunched and crinkled and—

“Why don’t you come in,” Hux says.

Kylo looks over at him, and his breath catches in his chest, the vocoder clicking.

Hux is leaning against the doorframe that leads further into his quarters. He is _extremely_ dressed down—still wearing his jodhpurs, but only a tight grey tank top on top, his dog tags hanging loosely on his chest. His feet are bare, and Kylo can see a hint of red hair across the tops of them. His bare hand is wrapped around a tumbler, the matched pair to the empty one that sits on the low table, and it’s the most casual Kylo has ever seen him—but Hux’s face is just as professional as it always is, his mouth tight.

“I’m here for my things,” Kylo says slowly, forcing his voice low to make it sound more threatening. “I’m going to collect them. Then I’m going to leave.” He looks back at the table, counts the boxes quickly to ensure that everything is accounted for, counts them again—

“There’s no need for you to leave,” Hux says. “Take off your helmet.”

Kylo looks at him. “You opened them,” he intones. “They didn’t have your name on them.”

Hux gestures sharply at his own forehead. “Neither does this, the last I checked, but that didn’t stop you for dipping your fingers into it as much as you liked while you were away.”

Kylo scowls at him, a gesture entirely hidden by the mask. Then he takes his mask off, and scowls at Hux visibly, curling his lip, narrowing his eyes, and drawing himself up as tall as he can to take advantage of the height difference.

“You heard what I said,” Hux drawls, completely nonplussed. His accent softens a bit at the edges before he shakes his head, speaks again in his regular accent. “It’s the least you could do after the fuckshow that this week has been.”

Kylo draws back, inhales sharply. “How dare—”

“You’ve been implanting this in my mind for weeks,” Hux says, lifting the tumbler to his lips and taking a long sip of whiskey. “You’ve been… _sharing_ , Kylo.”

Kylo hesitates.

“Do it again,” Hux says, looking at Kylo and smiling viciously.

“Don’t be like this,” Kylo mutters.

“Like what?”

“Like _this_ ,” Kylo says, gesturing sharply. “This isn’t you. None of this is you.”

“Ah,” Hux says, mouth curving in an oily smirk. “But I didn’t realize that lace…delicates were part of _you_ , Kylo. So I believe it’s only fair that we each be our honest selves in front of the other, wouldn’t you say?”

_They’re not part of me_ , Kylo wants to scream—but he knows it’s a lie. They’re a part of him just as much as his heritage is, the royal blood that his mother had diluted with a Corellian pirate, bringing him further and further from the ancestry he so rightly deserved and had been denied at every turn. “This is all I have left,” he grits out. “My heritage was taken from me. You cannot deny me my material comforts, when this entire ship is—”

“Is what?” Hux asks, straightening. His mouth has tightened back into a thin line again. “I dare you, Ren. Say something about the ship. Say something about the _Finalizer_.”

“I just want my things,” Kylo says, finally. “Let me take them, and go. And give me back the one you took.”

“Maybe I won’t,” Hux says.

“Then keep it,” Kylo snaps. He’ll just come back for it later, when Hux has drunk himself to sleep. “It’ll be the nicest thing you’ve ever—”

Before he finishes the sentence, Hux nudges the panel next to the door, and the lights in the bedroom behind him come on.

Or, at least, one of the lights in the bedroom comes on. It’s an overhead light, and it’s pointing to a chair sitting in front of the bed. Directly beside the bed, there is a rack, with one hanger, and with—and with—

“My robe,” Kylo breathes. “You unpacked my robe.” It’s even more stunning in person—silk, ordered specially from Naboo, the highest quality that he could find, and he hadn’t been able to Force project enough to actually be able to feel the fabric under his fingertips, but he’s taking an inadvertent step forward because he wants to feel it now, he wants to feel it so _badly_ —

“Get changed, won’t you?” Hux says casually. His accent is slipping again, and it’s making something in the back of Kylo’s brain _twitch_. “You’ve only been thinking about it for weeks now, you must have _something_ in mind.”

“That wasn’t for you,” Kylo says haughtily. “I’m taking this back to my quarters.”

“No,” Hux says. He gestures with his whiskey toward the floor. “You’re taking off your boots.”

Kylo glares at him.

Hux smirks, makes a vague gesture with his hand.

“That’s not how the Force works,” Kylo mutters, but he bends and takes off his boots anyway, because…well. Because Hux has bare hands and bare feet and dogtags hanging on his chest, because he’s now confirmed that Hux’s uniform is heavily padded at the shoulders, because even though he’s still furious that Hux has touched his things—but mostly because the robe is still _right there_ , and it’s going to feel so amazing against his skin, like the things that he deserves that have been denied him, like—

He takes off his boots, removes his socks. When he looks up at Hux, Hux is staring, unabashedly. Kylo looks down. His own bare feet are clean, depilated, toenails neat and tidy. Much nicer than Hux’s, and apparently a novelty.

Kylo takes off his gloves, loosening the tip of each finger before slowly sliding the warmed leather off, and tucking the gloves into his pocket—first the left, and then the right. He can see the tremor in Hux’s hand, can see the little waves the whiskey is making across the bottom of his cup. He wants to call Hux out for it, but he doesn’t want Hux to evict him either, so he stays silent and reaches up to his cowl, and starts to unwrap it, and Hux stands there, and watches, whiskey forgotten, and face slackening as Kylo reveals more and more of his skin. When the cowl is unwrapped, Kylo drops it to the side, tips his head to expose his neck, and the glass actually clinks off Hux’s teeth in his haste to drink and pretending that he isn’t gaping.

_So it’s like that, then._

Kylo strips off the rest of his clothing slowly and deliberately, and Hux watches him like he’s a strategy holo, downs his whiskey like it’s a shot, and then digs his nails into his palms and _stares._ It’s shocking—the sheer _want_ coming off Hux is so intense that Kylo can feel it even with his eyes closed, can absorb it into his skin and let it get him high. But yet—there’s more of it, there’s so much more, because Hux is holding back, Hux is _waiting_ for something, Hux is tension and anxiety and grinding his teeth like he thinks Kylo won’t hear it…

“This is me,” Kylo says, keeping his voice low and steady. He spreads his arms out, flexes his pecs, and waits for Hux to kneel and worship him. His cock and balls are hanging between his legs, but his cock is starting to fill just from the sheer anticipation of this, of whatever is going to happen now. Of Hux at his feet, like he should be.

Hux chuckles, and it’s the same sound that has haunted Kylo’s dreams for weeks. “I don’t think so,” he says.

“Pardon?”

“ _Pahr-din_ ,” Hux repeats, in a disrespectful mockery of Kylo’s accent before snapping back to his own learned bullshit one. “Don’t fuck around, Kylo.”

The profanity is absolutely crass, and Kylo twitches, his lip curling inadvertently. “I don’t know what you mean,” Kylo says haughtily, crossing his arms over his chest, and widening his stance. “You’re the one who’s an invasive little wea—”

“Put it on,” Hux says, eyes glinting. “I want to see it on you.”

Kylo swallows.

“The robe,” Hux continues. “The—lace pants. There’s gloves in one of those packages, I want to see those too.” His voice has sped up now, tongue tripping over some of his words in a way that it never does when he’s giving speeches. “The leg—things.” His eyes drop to Kylo’s bare thighs. “I want to see those,” Hux says, his voice gone hoarse. “Show me those.”

“You’re serious,” Kylo breathes.

“Yes,” Hux replies. “Don’t fuck me on this, Kylo.”

“I want to,” Kylo says.

Hux’s eyes dart up to him, and he _glares_. “You fucking _cheat_ —”

“No,” Kylo repeats. “I _want_ to, Hux. I want to fuck. After this. After I get dressed for you. I want to fuck.”

“Oh,” Hux says, blinking. “You’ll…?”

“I’ll get dressed,” Kylo says. “But I want to fuck after.”

Hux swallows, darts his tongue out and licks his lips. “Yes,” he mouths, his voice so quiet it isn’t even audible. “Yes.”

 

Finally unpackaging things, putting them on his body, feels exactly like coming home. Like he’s wrapping himself in the heritage that he was supposed to have, the heritage that is entirely too graceful and lush and beautiful to belong anywhere near the First Order—but he’s here anyway, covering himself in silk and lace on the _Finalizer_ , with the youngest general ever watching him with narrowed eyes, his space-pale skin flushed and pink, and his nails dug hard into his own palms.

“The small box, on top of the pile,” Kylo says.

Hux is staring at Kylo’s hands.

“The small box,” Kylo repeats, reaching out with the Force and nudging Hux a little.

Hux shakes his head, reaches for the box. His hands are shaking when he hands it over, and he only comes close enough to give the box to Kylo before he retreats again.

Kylo ducks his head to hide his smile, opens the box. There are four sets of underwear nestled inside, but Kylo’s hand goes immediately to the black set—by the way Hux is breathing, if Kylo chooses any of the more elaborate pairs, he risks Hux having a heart attack before they’re actually able to do anything.

And it’s not that he’s never thought about Hux like this before—but Hux has always been so dedicated to fucking him over that it made it extraordinarily difficult for Kylo to think of him sexually when they were in the same vicinity as each other. But this—Hux panting for it, nervous and sweating—Hux like this is trashy and low-brow, the way Kylo has always hoped him to be, underneath the greatcoat and the posturing, and Kylo is _hungry_ for it.

“Watch me,” he says, but there’s no point in him having spoken—Hux is too far gone to hear him anyway, seemingly unaware that his hard cock is clearly visible, even in the bulk of his jodhpurs, and eyes absolutely fixed on the lace thong that Kylo is carefully lifting out of the box.

Kylo keeps his back straight as he bends over, steps into the underwear, and then carefully draaaaaags them up his thighs.

Hux whimpers.

Kylo reaches down and cups his cock with his hand, uses the Force to will himself softer, just so that he’ll fit. Carefully pulls the lace up over his thighs, adjusts his cock again to make sure it’s perfect.

Hux’s pupils are so dilated. Kylo could get off on nothing but that, Hux’s eyes exactly like this, his breath coming fast and shallow, his cock hard in his jodhpurs.

“I’m going to put on the stockings now,” Kylo says.

Hux shuts his eyes, his entire face pinching up for a moment, before he opens them, licks his lips. “Okay.”

Kylo considers, for a moment, letting Hux touch them—letting Hux take them out of the box, holding out his foot while Hux kneels and carefully puts the stocking on his foot, pulls it up his calf—but he’s seen Hux’s hands. He’s not letting Hux anywhere near his stockings, not until he has time to sit down and give the man a manicure, buff off the calluses caused by the tight way he holds his stylus.

Kylo picks up the box with the stockings in it, hesitates a moment before walking over to the chair. He’s not certain whether he wants to sit on the chair or on the bed, whether he wants to remain standing and have Hux sit, whether he wants—

Hux’s hands twitch, and he strides over to the chair. Puts his hands on the back of the chair, squeezes the back of it so tightly that he’s bloodless, pale.

Kylo doesn’t even think about it. He sets the box of stockings down on the floor, and brings his leg up, pointing his toe and balancing it, ever so lightly, on the seat of the chair. Runs his hand up his leg, and watches Hux watching him. Then he ducks his head, picks up the first stocking. Puts his thumbs inside it, carefully arranging it so that he can easily pull it on.

( _Force_ , he can hear Hux’s _heartbeat_.)

He lifts his toes and carefully pulls the stocking on, adjusting it so that it sits properly. He exhales, and then pulls the stocking up his calf, over his knee, and then settles it on his thigh, running his fingers over the lace band that keeps it secured in place.

“Fuck,” Hux says. “Kylo.”

He wants to rush the second stocking. He wants to yank it on, and lie back on the bed, wrap his legs around Hux’s waist and yank him close, grind up against his dick. Instead, he lifts his stocking-covered leg off the chair, sets it down on the floor, and slowly bends at the waist, keeping his legs straight. He knows how he looks from this angle. He knows about the muscles in his shoulders and his back. He knows how good he looks in a lace thong and one stocking. He knows—and, yet, listening to Hux try to control his breathing is all the validation that Kylo  has ever wanted.

When Kylo straightens, Hux’s face is flushed.

“Tell me,” Kylo says, picking up the second stocking and lifting his foot to put it on. “Before tonight—how many times did you touch yourself thinking of me?”

“None,” Hux says, voice strangled. “Absolutely—absolutely none.”

“And after tonight?” Kylo asks.

Hux’s silence says everything.

(Kylo should have pinned Hux down and sat on him, fixed his horrible rough hands so that it could be Hux’s fingers pulling the second stocking up Kylo’s leg, Hux’s fingers smoothing the lace band into place, Hux’s fingers tracing down Kylo’s thighs just the same as he’s wanted the entire time, but they’ve rushed into this now, and there’s nothing they can do about it—)

Kylo adjusts the lace band on the second stocking, straightens.

Hux blinks at him, and then turns abruptly, walks stiffly back to the table and rummages through the boxes, returns a moment later with one of the long, narrow boxes.

“Which ones did you pick?” Kylo asks.

“Lace,” Hux says. “The—the lace ones.”

Kylo tucks his right hand behind his back, extends his left.

Hux doesn’t move.

Kylo rotates his hand so that it’s palm up, spreads his fingers. Waits.

Hux fumbles the box, nearly drops it. Sets the box down on the chair and takes one of the gloves out, holds the opening of it wide with his rough hands, and just—waits.

Kylo steps forward, presses his hand into the opening of the glove. Hux stands there like an idiot for a moment before stepping forward, and pulling the glove up Kylo’s arm. By the time the glove is settled, the edge of it just past Kylo’s elbow, Hux is standing so close to him that Kylo’s knee is very nearly between Hux’s legs. It would only take a moment for Kylo to shift, press up and give Hux something to grind against—but Hux is already reaching down for the second glove, holding it open and waiting for Kylo’s hand.

It’s quicker, the second time around. Hux’s fingers are more certain, and he’s not afraid to tug at the glove a little, get it positioned where he wants it. Once the glove is tugged up past Kylo’s elbow, Hux steps back, licks his lips.

“The robe,” Hux says.

Kylo shrugs, holds his arms out to the side and waits. Watches Hux put his bare hands on the Naboo silk, carry the robe over quickly enough that it flutters out behind him, holds it out to Kylo as though Kylo is royalty—which is exactly how Kylo should feel.

(It’s exactly what he’s been missing.)

Kylo slips his arms inside the robe, shrugs it up onto his shoulders. It feels exquisite, soft and light and beautiful. He ties it around his waist, pivots once, twice, three times, and then stops and looks at Hux. “Well?”

“On the—on the chair,” Hux says. “Like you dreamed.”

Kylo’s eye twitches.

“I don’t mind,” Hux says hurriedly. “I did mind. But I don’t—not anymore. Sit down.”

“I didn’t mean to,” Kylo says under his breath, running his hands down his ass and his thighs to smooth the robe out before sitting down on the chair, spreading his legs slightly to give his cock room. “I was—it was—”

“Lonely,” Hux says breathlessly. He’s standing behind the chair, and his hands are on Kylo’s shoulders. “I ached every morning when I woke, I’ve never been that lonely in my life.”

Kylo bites his lip.

“You should have said,” Hux whispers in his ear. There’s a hot huff of breath, and then Hux’s teeth are digging into the side of Kylo’s neck, and Kylo is suddenly, painfully, hard, gasping and arching against the back of the chair as Hux’s rough hands claw into the tops of his shoulders, pulling at the robe. “You can come to me for the things you need.”

“You’re beneath me,” Kylo spits, even as he presses harder back against Hux, reaches behind the chair just to grasp for Hux’s waist, his frame so slender that Kylo can feel the knobs of his spine underneath the thin tank top he wears.

“You want me this way,” Hux hisses. “You want me exactly like this—and I want you exactly like this.”

“Yes,” Kylo agrees, bringing his hands forward again and then reaching over his head and back to catch the shoulders of Hux’s top and tug at them hard. “I dressed up for you, Hux. Undress for me.”

“I’m going to fuck you,” Hux says viciously. He steps away from Kylo, and then drops his tank top into Kylo’s outstretched hands. It’s thin, warm from the heat of Hux’s body and sweat-damp.

Kylo drops it on the floor, and immediately regrets the loss.

Hux strides around to the front of the chair, hands going to the fly of his jodhpurs, and grin so wide it’s likely to split his face open. His chest is flushed, nipples peaked, eyes wild.

“Do it,” Kylo says, spreading his legs and letting the robe fall to the sides, his cock straining up against the lace.

“Fuck yes,” Hux says, flicking the closure on his jodhpurs, letting them fall to the ground.

He’s not wearing underwear.

Kylo can’t even bring himself to be surprised.

 

It’s good, afterwards. The robe is splattered with semen and soaked with sweat in places, but Kylo feels good. Relaxed. Satisfied. He stretches like a cat, pointing his toes and reaching up above his head before bringing his hands down to his thighs, and running his hands across the stockings.

Ah, no. Hux has snagged his stockings on those coarse hands of his—once on the left thigh, twice on the right, and there’s probably more damage that Kylo just hasn’t seen yet.

Kylo sits up, winces in anticipation of more semen and lube sliding out of his ass—but there’s nothing to slide out, because Hux has already eaten it all out, spat it back on Kylo’s chest, and licked it up again. He looks down at his feet and frowns. His left toe is poking out of the stocking, and that’s definitely not the fault of Kylo’s pedicure. He tucks his balls back into the thong, pulls the robe up over his shoulders, and looks across the room.

Hux—Armitage—looks so bloody pleased with himself that Kylo can’t even be fully irritated about it. He’s stark naked, completely unselfconscious of the way that his hipbones jut out. There’s a hand-rolled cigarette dangling from between his lips, and Kylo is suddenly intensely grateful that they’re in Armitage’s rooms, not his own, because as much as Kylo’s likely going to have skin irritation from being fucked against these terrible sheets for the better part of the last five hours, at least the ashes from the horrid things he’s smoking are dropping onto Armitage’s own floor, and not scuffing up Kylo’s.

“Do you want more whiskey?” Armitage asks.

“No,” Kylo says, throat rough from choking on Armitage’s cock. It’s terrible whiskey—expensive, but horrid, and Kylo has half a mind to get a droid to bring back some of the wine from his own quarters, which is lightyears better than the swill Armitage is—

“Good,” Armitage says brightly, rummaging into the back of his cupboard. “Me neither, I hate the stuff.”

Maybe it’ll be wine, maybe he’ll have Alderaniaan wine, chilled to exactly—

The bottle that Armitage drags out from the back of his cupboard is not wine. It’s rotgut in some kind of a hand-labelled bottle, the label nearly peeled off, and a fucking _cork,_ of all things, jammed in the top of it. Armitage pulls the cork out with his teeth and lets it fall to the floor before he takes a deep swig from the bottle. Kylo can feel his own stomach turning over.

“You can’t possibly…” he says.

Armitage swallows, holds the bottle out. “You want some? Comes from the engine room, so it’s local.”

It’s one of the most horrid combinations of words that Kylo has ever heard. “No, thank you.”

Armitage grins wickedly at him, exhales twin plumes of smoke from his nose. “More for me. You ready to go again?”

“You’ve come four times,” Kylo says. “And one of those was in my hair.”

“So we’ll move to the shower,” Armitage says, shrugging. “I don’t give a fuck, Kylo. This evening has been—enlightening.” His grin turns vicious, and then falters. “It was good for you?”

“I came twice,” Kylo says gently. “It was very good for me, Armitage.” He doesn’t mention the ruined underwear, or the snags in his stockings. He’s already decided that he’ll pack these clothes away, exactly as they are—body fluids, lube stains, and all—and never wear them again. He’ll order new ones.

“Next time,” Armitage says, inhaling deeply off his cigarette and exhaling a series of perfect smoke circles, “just comm me. Don’t fuck around with my head. I’ve forgiven it, but I don’t like it.” He takes another drag on his cigarette, disposes of it on the floor where it smokes and flares, burning itself out. “And keep sending your parcels here. Stars know I’m easier to contact than you are.”

“Okay,” Kylo says. “Yeah, I—yeah, I will.”

 

***

 

_Thigh highs_ , Hux thinks. Held in place with straps this time, straps attached to a belt around Kylo’s waist, the stockings themselves geometric mesh, circling those thick thighs of his, going all down his legs, covering his feet, and then his feet encased in black heels, with a sharp point, at least five inches in height, though maybe four would suffice, and—

_It’s a fucking garter belt_ , Kylo snarls into his mind. _It’s a garter belt and they’re called fishnet stockings. And I’m not wearing heels. I’m on duty, same as you are._

_Red soles on the shoes_ , Hux thinks, completely unperturbed by Kylo’s snit. _Red soles and delicate straps around his ankles, and I’ll kneel in front of him and undo the straps with my teeth_ —

There’s a static huff from beside him, and then Kylo is storming off the bridge, boots clomping on the durasteel floor.

Hux does his best to suppress a grin.

_General A. Hux [Finalizer]: I apologize for certain inappropriate assumptions made on the bridge, and would be willing to make amends this evening at twenty two hundred hours._

_General A. Hux [Finalizer]: I have a bottle of a specific Alderaniaan beverage I was informed would be appropriate to make said apology with._

_Commander Kylo Ren, Master of the Knights of Ren [Finalizer]: This will suffice._

_Commander Kylo Ren, Master of the Knights of Ren [Finalizer]: You were right about the stockings, I was wearing those._

_Commander Kylo Ren, Master of the Knights of Ren [Finalizer]: Also a corset._

_General A. Hux [Finalizer]: Corset?_

_Commander Kylo Ren, Master of the Knights of Ren [Finalizer]:…_

_Commander Kylo Ren, Master of the Knights of Ren [Finalizer]: See you at twenty two hundred, Armitage._

_Commander Kylo Ren, Master of the Knights of Ren [Finalizer]: You’ll like this. I have foreseen it._

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I suspect Hux is not aware of the monetary cost of the items he just ruined.
> 
> He is, however, in possession of a brand new lingerie fetish, which is probably going to be nice for both him and Kylo in the future.


End file.
